Chapter 5

Darcy led his partner across the vast hall of Lady Fanshawe’s grand London house, where it seemed half the ton were assembled, and accompanied her back to her seat. He wished that were the last dance of the evening, but alas, he had three more to endure. He bowed to the young lady but was prevented by her mother from taking his leave.

“Thank you, Mr Darcy. Beatrice is rarely blessed with the opportunity to show her proficiency at the dance to advantage, but with such an accomplished partner, she was always guaranteed to shine.”

He could think of nothing to say. Miss Beatrice McNally was, indeed, a proficient dancer, and he had enjoyed partnering her before. On this occasion, however, being in her company had felt akin to being in a room with a swarm of flies. Her conversation was a never-ending buzz of inane prattle that darted in far too many directions at once for any rational thought to attach itself. He had made a concerted effort to extract from her some meaningful observation or opinion, but she invariably only commended him for whatever thought he had expressed, then launched off on another tangent. He had never worked so hard to appear interested in someone’s concerns for so little reward.

“Did she happen to mention to you that we are to have a ball this Christmas, sir?”

“Of course I did, Mama,” Miss McNally replied. “I told him all the things you said I should.”

Worse and worse—they were not even her own inanities but her mother’s.

“I do hope you will honour us with your attendance, Mr Darcy,” said the older lady. “We should be quite desolate if you were not there to open the dance with Beatrice.”

He raised an eyebrow at her presumption, and she blushed and tittered awkwardly but did not retract her remark before bustling her daughter away.

“They would be quite desolate if they were not able to boast to all their friends that they had secured one of the richest men in the north of England as their honoured guest,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam over Darcy’s shoulder. When his cousin had snuck up to eavesdrop was anybody’s guess.

Darcy did not turn around. “Why do you think they do not chase after Royston in the same fashion?”

His cousin drew abreast and joined him in staring after the retreating McNally women. “Because he is not rich—at least, not in the way that matters, not yet. And neither will he be until my father curls up his toes. You,” he jabbed Darcy in the arm, “can do as you please with your money.”

“You think that is their only consideration?”

“Were you hoping I would tell you it is because you are prettier than my moon-faced brother?”

“No, of course not. But do you not think there can be more to this business than just money and consequence?”

“Good grief, who have you been talking to?” Fitzwilliam scoffed.

He had not been talking to Elizabeth, and that was largely the problem. He had left Netherfield two days after Bingley’s ball and had not been back since, though his friend had assured him he was welcome at any time. Two weeks of engagements with his usual circle had not distracted him from thoughts of Elizabeth. Indeed, the longer he was away from her, the more frequently she stole into his thoughts. It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend that his attachment to her was merely a fleeting fascination.

“No one. I just find them all so vacuous. They all want me to notice them, but how can I when they are all identical. They all play well, they all sing well, they all speak half a dozen languages.”

“I thought you admired those qualities in a lady. I daresay most of them only learnt it all to distinguish themselves in the eyes of potential husbands, after all.”

Darcy grimaced. “Would that they had not! How is one to know who any of them are beneath the veneer of endless accomplishments?”

Fitzwilliam laughed. “Have you tried talking to any of them?”

“Yes, believe it or not. I have. All I ever hear in return is flattery. I am tired of everybody agreeing with everything I say. I must be wrong sometimes.”

Fitzwilliam turned fully to face him, all incredulity. “Seriously, Darcy, are you quite well?”

“I am only saying that I would not object to some more interesting society. You would think, in London, I might find it. There is no want of people, but there is no variety. Some livelier company would not go amiss.”

“What do you mean by lively? I could show you a few places, but I cannot believe you would enjoy them. You do not approve of ‘unruly’.”

He was not wrong. At Bingley’s ball, Elizabeth’s family—all but her eldest sister—had behaved appallingly, and it had disgusted him. It was that which Darcy had been forcing himself to remember every time his mind wandered to thoughts of Elizabeth. But this ball was almost as dire, for all the opposing reasons.

“There is a world of difference between coarseness of manner and liveliness of mind. I am not seeking incivility, but I am tired of deference. I am tired of officious attention. It is meaningless.”

“Gads, you sound weary of the world, man.”

Darcy stared at him. Elizabeth was right: he was downright jaded.

Fitzwilliam slapped him on the shoulder. “You might as well resign yourself to it. This is the way things work in our sphere. Men want wealthy, accomplished wives. Women want rich, respected husbands. I do not know where you expect to find a woman who does not fit that mould.”

“I know where,” he said quietly.

His cousin regarded him with surprise before a shrewder expression overtook his features. “I should stop wasting my time with this lot and get on and secure her post-haste, then, before some other lucky fellow does.”

The comprehension that it really could be that simple gave Darcy a jolt of pleasure. “You are right. I should.” He turned to leave.

“Wait—what? Darcy? I did not mean this instant!”

“I did. You may have my next dance.”

“Honoured, I am sure. Who is it with?”

“I do not know. They are all the bloody same.”

Lighter of heart than he had been in an age, Darcy turned on his heel and left.